


Busy Making Other Plans

by Leviathan0999



Category: I Spy (1965)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviathan0999/pseuds/Leviathan0999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kelly and Scotty learn just what can go wrong with a simple assignment in Tokyo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busy Making Other Plans

  
**   
I SPY   
**   


  
**Busy Making Other Plans**   


  
_   
**Tokyo - 1967**   
_   


  
  
  
The man was a little too handsome. His hazel eyes, even here as he sprinted across the tennis court, crinkled with amusement, his light-brown hair parted on the left and waving in the breeze, his nose long and straight and decisive over a mouth that even as he returned the volley with a savage backhand flirted with an ironic smirk. He was striking, charismatic, memorable. This was entirely in keeping with his life as a tennis bum, wandering from millionaire to billionaire across the globe, teaching this son how to serve and volley, indulging that daughter by playing just hard enough to beat her without embarrassing her, letting her think that she might actually beat this well-known athlete at his own game if her father kept him over for one more night, one more match. As a tennis bum, Gregory Ketsch thought, Kelly Robinson was just about perfect. But he was far too famous, too noticeable, and, God dammit, too _pretty_ to be a spy.

His partner, however... Ketsch glanced over at the sidelines, where the tall, slender Negro stood, with Robinson's rackets and balls in a white canvas case at his feet, holding a fresh white towel easily at his side as his dark eyes tracked Robinson's movements. He was certainly more than handsome enough, with his strong cheekbones and slender jaw. Ketsch thought wryly that the only way he knew to describe the man's features were in stereotypically racial terms, that trying to describe Alexander Scott to a sketch artist would result in a generic "Negro" that would come nowhere close to capturing him. _'They all look alike,' Greg?_ Ketsch smirked at himself. No, they did not, and Scott, with his close-cropped hair showing a part-line on the left and his intelligent, watchful eyes, with the happy crinkles at the corners, was one of a kind. He watched Robinson carefully and critically, every inch the dedicated trainer making sure his charge was playing well and taking care of himself. He had the solemn stillness of scholar – which he was, a Rhodes Scholar who spoke six languages fluently – and the rangy athleticism of his partner. But he wasn't flamboyant, and even when he spent time in parts of the world where the color of his skin made him a rarity, he was able to keep quietly to the background. Even with his good looks, he fit Ketsch's profile of a secret agent.

Ketsch waited for the match to end, waited for the moment to make his approach. He liked Scott a great deal. The first time the Pentagon had used him as a contact for these two, his role was to play a racist, insulting Scott and provoking a scuffle that would let him surreptitiously slip the coded documents into his pocket. When he'd called the man "Boy," Scott had looked him up and down, and muttered _Pathetic!_ and pulled him by his elbow into the hotel gift shop. _Listen,_ he'd told Ketsch, _I know you don't write the scripts, and you've got your job to do, but there's more than enough of that in the world without our own guys adding to it. You tell General Throckmorton that if they ever again send me a contact with that stuff, I'm going to walk right past him like he's not even there. _Scott had looked hard at him. _You understand me?_ Ketsch had nodded, and Scott had smiled, offering his hand. _Great. Call me Scotty. Now, what's the assignment?_

Robinson swung again, a mighty overhand drive that rocketed past Onizuka's racket, left a one-inch skid mark just inside the line, and was gone, and Onizuka stumbled at the end of his swing, taken off-balance by the absence of impact. He looked back at the ball, lying spent in the grass outside the court, and turned back, shaking his head with a rueful grin at Robinson. "Okay, Kelly, that's match. You got me. Let's call it a day, I'm going to be two martinis and four hours in the bath to recover as it is."

"All right, my man, yes indeed," chuckled Kelly, reaching across the net to take his hand. "It's been a rare privilege indeed beating your trousers off, and I hope to do it again next week!"

"All right," said Onizuka. "You know I'm a glutton for punishment."

"A diet that will help you keep your slim, trim, athletic figure, good sir, mark my words!"

Ketsch stepped forward as the two parted, and moved smoothly up to stand by Scott. As the tennis bum approached, he took another step, placing himself in his path, and held the package out in front of him. "Mr. Robinson? Fred Skinnersworth,from the Spaulding company. I wanted to talk to you about our new line of rackets."

Robinson smiled his toothy, movie-star smile, and reached a friendly hand. "Certainly, sir, certainly!" His voice held a sort of singsong merriment. "Please accompany us into the secret world of glamor that is the men's locker room, and you may regale me with the virtues and hidden wonders of your magnificent new racket while my trainer here rubs the kinks out!"

Ketsch sat by the massage table while Robinson showered, making small-talk with Scotty about Mark Lane's _Rush to Judgment_.

"Mark my words," Scotty was telling him, "we'll be hearing conspiracy theories well into the next century. By the time they're done, everybody will have killed Kennedy from the Cubans to the Man in the Moon."

Ketsch smiled. "Hard to believe one bullet could have–"

"My son, my son" came Kelly Robinson's voice from behind him, "if you'd been working in the field instead of behind a series of wonderful, wonderful desks, you'd know that a bullet can do just about anything in the whole damned world, including tap-dance with a straw hat and a cane while singing _Clementine_." He crossed around in front of Ketsch, a towel wrapped around his waist, and hopped up onto the table, stretching out prone, to cock an eye at Ketsch. "Okay, Jack, this room's clean and private. What have you got?"

Ketsch sat up a little straighter, drawing in a breath. The change in Kelly Robinson had been like the switching of a light switch, and, while the humor wasn't gone from his eyes or his mouth, there was a real seriousness there that reminded Ketsch again how wrong his initial impression was. He might not think Kelly Robinson was cut out to be a spy, but his record had said otherwise, again and again and again. Robinson and Scott were probably the most successful operational team the Pentagon had.

"You've heard of Tetsuo Takasawa?"

Kelly nodded, grunting slightly as Scott began massaging his shoulders. "Japanese Ministry of Defense, Office of International Liaison, in charge of agreements on allied bases located on Japanese soil."

Ketsch nodded. "Yes, exactly. We're trying to open a new Naval Air Station on Hokkaido, near Kushiro. Takasawa's obviously very important to us at this point."

"Hard to argue with that," said Scott.

"Well, apparently, Peking figured that out as well," said Ketsch. "They've paid the Yakuza a hundred thousand dollars to kidnap Takasawa's nine year old daughter Yukio."

"Ah, yes!" Kelly's words were merry again, but there was real steel in his voice. "The Reds get hold of little Yukio, and they can make Takasawa turn down the naval base. So our job is to keep them from getting hold of her?"

Ketsch shook his head. "No, Kelly. It's too late for that. We had no information until after the Yakuza had snatched the girl. We don't know where they're holding her. We do know that the Yakuza still has her. The Reds have a hard time operating here."

Kelly made a surprised sound, and Scott chuckled at him. "You only say that because you're an overly-scrutable Westerner!"

"Hey, Jack," objected Kelly, "I didn't even _say_ anything!"

"And you were _still wrong_, man!" said Scott. "Chinese and Japanese are racially very different, you see, and any Japanese would know a Chinese at a glance. It would be like sending you into Oakland to infiltrate the Black Panthers."

"Scotty, Scotty," said Kelly. "I do begin to see the error of the words I did not, in fact, utter, indeed I do."

"Sure, sure," said Scotty, his attention returning to Ketsch. "So the Yakuza are the ones holding Yukio, then. That's bad."

"I'll say, man," said Kelly. "The Yakuza are just in it for the money. If the Reds had her, they'd hold onto her as long as she was useful to them, but the Yakuza will just kill her as soon as they start to think she's more trouble than she's worth."

"Exactly." Ketsch leaned forward. "They're on a real hair-trigger, as well. The general's pretty sure that they'll kill her if they get even a hint of a rescue attempt."

"So what are we doing, then, baby?" Kelly asked. 

"A rescue attempt," Scotty replied in a chorus with Ketsch, but where Ketsch's tone was matter of fact and confident, Scott's was cynical and sharp, and he continued, "Man, Greg, I like you, I really do, but you keep opening your mouth and letting the most _terrible_ stuff come out of it. I mean it, man, you need to start turning down some of these assignments, or we're just not going to talk to you at all."

Kelly's eyes narrowed and he pushed himself up on his elbows to spear Ketsch with a disgusted look. "Now, man, as much as the general wants us to just get a nine-year-old girl killed so the Reds have no more hold on Takasawa, would there be any objection to us actually, you know, bringing her back to her father _alive_?"

Ketsch smiled grimly. "The general knows better than to overly constrain your operational latitude. He is concerned that, if it is apparent to Takasawa that his daughter was killed as a result of an American rescue attempt, he would blame us, and that would sour him on Hokkaido and other U.S. priorities. The general feels that, although a successful rescue of the girl would place on him a vast _On_ in regards to the United States, which he would be unable to repay, the consequences of being seen to have failed require serious consideration on your part before any operational plan is put into effect."

"In other words...." said Kelly.

"In other words," Ketsch supplied, "if you can rescue the kid, that's great. But failure _is_ an option as long as you don't get caught doing it. Our concern is getting Takasawa out from under the Reds, not the girl's life."

"Man," asked Scotty, "Do you ever get so disgusted with your job that you seriously consider just opening a fruit stand somewhere?"

Ketsch looked down at the floor. "All the damned time," he said quietly, then looked back up at Scotty and then Kelly. "For God's sake, ignore the damned General. Get her back. She's nine years old!"

Kelly and Scott both smiled at him.

"Scotty's right, my man," said Kelly, settling back down again. "You need to either start turning down assignments or find a new line of work all together. You still have a soul, Jack, and this job is going to kill you." He closed his eyes as Ketsch stood and started to leave, and didn't open them when he spoke again. "Leave the racket. We all still have covers to protect."

Ketsch stopped short, turned, placed the package containing the new Spaulding racket on the chair he'd been occupying. "Good luck."

"You too, Greg," said Scotty, as he turned back to massaging Kelly's back and shoulders, "you too."

* * *

"Man, I'm telling you, it's good," said Scotty, gesturing at his plate of sushi.

"Man, _I_'m telling _you_, it's _raw fish!_" Kelly responded.

"This from the man who put mayo on his peanut butter, jelly and bacon sandwiches."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you? You're just going to keep throwing that in my face forever. I tried to share something, something truly unique and wonderful, and you've got nothing but contempt, man, it's really sad."

"For peanut butter, jelly, bacon and mayo? You've got that right, Jack, nothing but contempt." Scotty took a sip of ginger ale. "But the real question is, where do we start looking for Yukio Takasawa? You know, there are over twelve million people in Tokyo, man, the place has lost that whole small-town, everybody-knows-everybody charm it had back when we first came here and there were only eleven million, seven-hundred thousand."

"Ah, my fine young man, I do believe I have an answer for you, as I know a respected member of the Fourth Estate who's been working the Tokyo beat for almost fifteen years now, came in when the population was probably only about six million. This is a man with his finger on the pulse, you might say, a man who knows what's happening, a man who has some contacts."

"Excellent, excellent, my fine man," replied Scott. "And who, pray tell, is this journalistic paragon of whom you speak?"

"You don't know?" asked Kelly.

"I do not."

"Shall I tell you, then?"

"I wish you would."

"Steve Martin," said Kelly, with no small pride.

"Isn't he the guy from the—?"

"The very one," Kelly replied. "Stopped into Tokyo for a brief layover to visit a college friend in 1954, and landed in the story of the century."

"Man, that guy is a legend," said Scotty. "He won every award in the world for that report from the hospital! Still gives me chills, man, really!" He looked back at Kelly. "And you know him?"

"I do," said Kelly. "And he owes me a favor, too!"

"Well, go for yourself, Stanley, that's marvelous. What say you pick up the telephone instrument over on that table over there, and give good Mr. Martin a call, and see if he's got time to talk to us!"

"My very idea, Doctor Livingston! The way you plucked that right from my thoughts, it's positively uncanny!"

* * *

Martin was a heavyset man, with dark hair and dark, intense eyes set deep beneath prominent brows. There was a stillness in those eyes that was somehow, paradoxically, both serene and haunted; what he'd seen in the holocaust of 1954 had marked him indelibly.

His home was modest in comparison with his wealth, simple, comfortable furnishings, balsa-and-rice-paper walls. The one visible indulgence was a large, overstuffed easy chair with an ottoman, in which he sat back after offering Kelly and Scotty drinks and showing them to his sofa.

"I didn't know," he said, smiling, "that the Yakuza were big tennis fans." His voice was deep and penetrating as his eyes were, and held both warning and promise. _You can't expect me to be straight with you if you won't return the favor._

"Well, Steve, they aren't," said Kelly. "I don't have to tell you that tennis isn't all I do."

"And you can't tell me...?"

"You know I can't."

Martin sat back for a moment, closing his eyes. Scotty leaned forward, opened his mouth, but Kelly stilled him with a raised palm. He shrugged and sat back.

Finally, Martin straightened, looking Kelly in the eye. "I hope you're as good as I think you are. I hope you're as good as _you_ think you are. What do you want to know?"

Scotty leaned in again. "If the Yakuza needed to keep someone safe and controlled, where would they keep them?"

"Safe and controlled," said Martin. "As in, a prisoner."

"That's right."

Steve Martin thought for a moment then his eyes widened. "Good lord! Takasawa's daughter? _They've_ got her?"

Kelly nodded. "It looks that way, Steve."

"That doesn't make sense. They're not political–" He interrupted himself. "Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Work for hire. Red China, I assume."

"Don't assume, man," said Scotty. "Nothing good comes of it, really."

"Fair enough. I'm sorry, it's the instincts of a reporter. There's no shutting them off." Martin took a contemplative sip of his brandy. After a few seconds, he spoke. "There are three possibilities," he said. "There's a nightclub on the Ginza, _Bassho's Repose_. It's not as dignified as the name suggests, believe me. There's a suite of offices on the eleventh floor of the Fujimori building. An import/export firm, Tokyo International Trading. The business is a front for smuggling, but those offices are clean. They're only manned about five days a month, it's an auxiliary office. Then there's a warehouse on the waterfront, Takigato, Phelps and Company. Another smuggling front."

Scotty and Kelly exchanged a look, and Kelly nodded. He turned back to the reporter. "Listen, Steve, indications are, they're really jumpy. If they hear somebody's looking..."

"I understand," said Martin. He stood. "Still, I _am_ a newsman. Can you give me something when it's safe?"

Kelly smiled. "You know, we just might, Steve. We just might at that."

As they made their way down the front walk, Scotty angled his eyes over at Kelly. "We just might? What's that all about?"

Kelly shrugged. "I figured, if we pull this off, and once little Yukio is safe, there's a news story from an anonymous source about the good old USA having rescued her, then her daddy might be properly grateful, man, that's all."

* * *

_Bassho's Repose_ should, by its name, have been a quiet, elegant club, a room of stillnesses to be contemplated in seventeen-syllable verses. What it was, was a noisy, down-at-heels bar, full of hard-faced prostitutes and hard-drinking stevedores. The bar itself was ill-maintained and dirty, ringed from countless glasses of hard liquor sloshed carelessly onto its surface.

Scotty slipped into a seat at a table near the back wall.

"Man," said Kelly, "that's not fair! Why is it, whenever we get into one of these dives, you make _me_ schlep off to the bar for the drinks?"

"'Cause when I order a glass of milk, people want to make fun of me, and it hurts my feelings, man. You know how sensitive I am."

Kelly shrugged, "Well, that's true, Jack, I do hate it when you get all teary-eyed."

"You see? I do this all for you, Kel, all for you!"

"All right, all right!" Kelly waded up to the bar and returned shortly with glass of Sake and one of Milk, and sat opposite his partner.

Scotty took a sip of his milk. "I'm not liking it, man."

Kelly nodded. "Way too seedy, way to crowded, and there's an active market in dope in the back room. Even if they're paying off the cops, it's too risky. A fight, a dope raid, trouble from the girls? Too many chances of getting rumbled." He tossed back his drink. "Still, we might find somebody here who knows something."

"Get into the back room, find the peddler, work up from there?" Scotty's tone was noncommittal.

"Won't work," Kelly agreed. "Anybody who knows anything we can use will be too scared of their bosses to share it."

"What I was thinking," said Scotty, setting down the half-full glass of milk.

* * *

It was 10:30 when they arrived at the Fujimori building. For one of the great metropolitan capitals of the world, Tokyo always amazed them with its early-to-bed ethos. By ten PM, the streets were all but empty, and the two security guards on duty in the building's lobby watched them with careful eyes as they walked past on the sidewalk.

Kelly shook his head. "Now, that's not cool, Scotty," he said. "They were watching us like hawks, man!"

"That's because we're the only people in town besides them still awake."

"Well, we've gotta get up to that suite."

"Yeah, and we can't let Hawkeye and Eagle-eye know we're doing it," answered Scotty. "Because they'll call the owners, and then it's just this whole mess, you see."

"Yes, indeed," replied Kelly, as they reached the corner of the block and turned, walking down the side of the building. "And messes, as we all know, have to be cleaned up, don't they?"

"You know, they do," said Scotty. "Somebody has to pick up all the trash, and throw it away, and, you know, when I was a kid, I used to do that, I had to take the garbage right out to the street for the Garbage Truck to pick up. Man, those barrels weighed a ton, Jack, I'm telling you!"

"How'd you like to have to carry them down from high up in an excellent sky-scraping structure such as this amazing tower to our left? I bet your arms would get tired then, wouldn't they?" They'd reached another corner and turned again, into the service-way behind the building. 

"Well, no," Scott said. "They wouldn't, because, you see, I wouldn't have to carry them all the way downstairs. Because these big buildings have what you call garbage chutes on most floors, like big slides that go from little hatches right inside each and every floor, and dump out into these big containers you see back here, called dumpsters! Isn't that marvelous?"

Kelly looked at the dumpsters, and the open chutes above them, and scowled. "No," he said, "No, it's not, in so many ways, because we're gonna have to climb in there, with all that trash and garbage, and then make it up into the chute, and then try and climb up as far as a hatch. Even if we only go to the second floor, that's going to be a real pain in the neck, Jack, not to mention the shoulders and knees and lower back. Not to mention, man, that knowing our luck, we'll be half-way up the chute, and some honorable, hardworking Japanese janitor will throw a bag of day-old sushi on us!"

"Well, Kel, that's the glamor of the Spy biz for you, what can I say, man? It's what we do!"

"Man, it'd be one thing if we were in Mexico, and I could charm Shelby Clavell into letting me put my outfit on my expense account..."

Scotty eyed the black-and-white striped jacket his partner was wearing. "Kelly, I'm telling you, man, if somebody manages to destroy that jacket for you, you should pay _them!_" They'd reached the first dumpster, and Scotty jumped up and grabbed hold of the edge. "Hell, _I'd_ pay them!"

"I _like_ this jacket, man!" complained Kelly as he jumped up to grab the edge of the dumpster beside his partner.

"I know." Scott heaved himself to stand balanced on the rim, then reached down to give Kelly a hand up. "That's the truly sad part, I'm telling you."

They made their way carefully over to the edge nearest the building, and looked up into the shaft of the garbage chute. It was rusty and streaked with grime, and a shred of something nasty-looking hung from the edge of a protruding bolt maybe six inches up, barely visible as the chute disappeared into darkness.

"Oh, the wonderfulness of this idea," Kelly muttered. "I like it better and better with every passing moment." 

Scotty crouched down, keeping his center of gravity carefully balanced over his lined-up feet on the narrow rim, and offered Kelly his clasped hands as a step. "Quit complaining, man, tempus fugit and all that stuff."

Kelly shrugged and stepped into the saddle of Scotty's clasped hands, and boosted himself up to grab onto the edge of the chute. He heaved himself up and managed to wedge himself in, shoulders against one side, shoes against the other, and began inching himself painfully up the shaft.

Scott balanced on the rim of the dumpster, staring up at his partner as he jerked his way up. There was a flash of light, somewhere off to east, like summer lightning, and then a distant _boom_, perhaps a rumble of thunder. The bay? Beyond? "Well, I hope the kid's upstairs," he grumbled, jumping up and squeezing himself in after his partner. "Because looking for her in the rain will be no fun at all, man, I'm telling you that right now."

It took them a half hour of inching their way up the shaft to get to the third-floor hatchway – they'd decided that the Second Floor would be too close to the lobby and guards, and risk being heard as they clambered out – and managed to wiggle through and out into what turned out to be a maintenance room about twice the size of a closet, with a big sink and a drain in the floor, a mop in a rolling bucket in the corner.

"Well," muttered Kelly, twisting the valve and starting warm water running in the big sink, "here's the first break we've had all night!" He rinsed his hands in the water, then put his head under the flow, letting it wash through his hair until what went down the drain lost its more interesting colors. He pulled off the black-and-white striped jacket, looked at the back, and sighed, deeply. Scotty was already crumpling the light blue windbreaker he'd been wearing, and opening the garbage chute to throw it back down. Kelly grabbed his cigarette case from the jacket pocket, and sent it to follow.

Scotty took his place at the sink, washing his hands and head in the water, and they both pulled paper towels from a rack, and did what they could with their hair. 

The corridor was dark, and only emergency lighting was on in the fire stairs as they moved quietly up through the empty building. 

"Man, you know, I know this town is in bed by nine," said Kelly, "but I would've thought they'd keep the stairways lit, you know?"

"Electricity costs money, man," said Scotty, philosophically. But he shrugged his shoulders under his red polo shirt, as if something was making him uncomfortable. 

They were rounding the landing between the ninth and tenth floors when they felt a vibration in the building, a distinct shake that subsided as quickly as it had begun. 

"Woah." Kelly and Scott exchanged glances in the dim light of the stairwell. "My man," Kelly continued, "is Tokyo earthquake territory?"

"Well," replied Scotty, quietly, "There was the 1923 quake in the plains of Kanto, just outside of town, killed a hundred thousand people."

They stared at one another for a moment. 

"Well, lets hope for another one of those, man," said Kelly, before turning to bound up steps, two at a time.

"You got _that_, Jack!" said Scotty, following close behind him. "Because, I'm telling you, I don't like the alternative at all!"

They burst out onto the Eleventh Floor, and ran full-tilt down to the window at one end. The city was dark, but for the probing fingers of large searchlights, criss-crossing buildings and the sky.

"This doesn't give me a good feeling," said Scotty, quietly. "Not a good feeling at all."

"Me either," replied Kelly. "But there's still that little girl, and should could be right on this floor."

There was another percussive tremor while they were checking doors, and then Scotty was signaling with his hand, and the two men pressed their ears to the door marked, in English and Japanese, _Tokyo International Trading_. The only sound either of them heard was a distant cry of sirens.

Scott looked a question at his partner, and Kelly shrugged, and pulled a lock-pick from his hip pocket. It was thirty silent seconds to open it, and they were inside. 

They did their best to ignore the criss-crossing fingers of light probing the skyline and the skies above as they combed quietly and efficiently through the offices. There were desks and chairs and filing cabinets, phones and typewriters and a fairly large safe. But no Yakuza gangsters, no terrified nine-year-old hostage, no human presence of any kind.

"Well," said Kelly, "That's two down. Next stop,Takigato, Phelps and Company, am I right?"

There was no answer from Scott, and he turned to glance at his partner. Alexander Scott was stock-still, staring wide-eyed out the window. 

Robinson started to turn, to follow his gaze, and suddenly heard the nearby thunder of artillery fire, and then a sound he'd heard only in news reports, a terrifying roar that was metal on metal, was a foghorn, was storm and woe, was hell upon the earth, and outside the window, he saw a mountain move, a vast reptilian head, easily thrice the size of a military transport jet. There was a ridge of jaggedly spiked plates standing out along the spine that disappeared from view far below, and the eyes glowed with a hellish, fiery light, which the criss-crossing ovals of searchlights failed to dim as they probed the massive, runnelled face.

The head turned, and for a long a moment, the gigantic beast seemed to be staring directly at him, directly into his eyes, before it turned again. To face back in the direction of the searchlights. He could actually see the energy crackling and beginning to glow in the spines and plates down it back as it reared, dropping its vast maw open.

"Well, Stanley," he breathed, his voice sounding almost like a prayer as the behemoth called Godzilla blew a vast and awful plume of nuclear fire back at the source of the probing lights, "this is another fine mess you've gotten me into!"

* * *

The building shook harder as they barreled down the emergency stairs two or three steps at a time.

"That's great," Kelly was panting. "Isn't that great? Here we are on this easy job, this veritable _cake-walk_ trying to save a nine-year-old girl from the most bloodthirsty gangsters in the world, who would as soon kill her or us as look at their watches – what could be easier? – and along comes this, this big green _party crasher_ to rain all over our good times! Is that right, I ask you?"

There was another impact, and the stairway shifted to an angle, and Kelly and Scott both had to dive to avoid falling concrete from the ceiling.

"No, Kelly," Scotty panted, brushing plaster dust from himself. "No, it's not right at all."

There was another concussion, and the stairwell – probably the whole building – canted further over. Below them, through the open space, they heard a horrible scream of tearing metal, and Scotty looked down the central well. 

"End of the line, Kel," he said. "Stairs have collapsed about a floor and a half further on down, man."

"Then there's at least one floor before the end of the line." Kelly started to step gingerly, and the floor shifted beneath him with a tearing, crumbling sound. "Or, we could just bail out here, and see if we can make it own the trash chutes from the fifth floor."

"I like that plan," said Scotty. "As plans go, I like that one very much. From here and now, I think it's the very best plan we can ask for."

"Well," said Kelly, reaching out to open the door onto the fifth floor, "that's because I'm a genius, you see, a veritable strategic prodigy of wisdom and sagacity." He heaved himself up through the door and around, to lean back against the corridor wall.

The floor began to shift under Scotty, and he crouched and then leapt, grabbing hold of the door-frame, and hauling himself through. The stairs behind him tore loose and hung slanting into the abyss.

One thing was proven: The whole building had settled at an angle, and, from the pops, creaks and groans they heard around them, it was quite clear that it wasn't finished.

Scotty looked over at his partner. "You know this place is on its way down, right?"

"The thought had occurred to me, yeah."

"Just so we're all on the same page, man."

The building was settling toward the front, so the journey to the maintenance closet in the back was a climb. It could have been worse, it was hardly mountaineering, but every now and again, the whole thing would shift further, the angle steepening. 

"How far can this thing goes before it just gives up and poops out?" asked Kelly.

Scotty snorted. "Man, I'm pretty well educated, and I know a lot about a lot, but if you want to know the number of degrees of tilt before the tensile strength of structural members fails and the whole building collapses, you got the wrong cat."

"You can't just say _I don't know_? You need to go through all that wonderful, wonderful verbiage to tell me you can't tell me what I want you to tell me, instead of those three little words?"

"I thought it would soften the blow."

"Well, thanks for trying, Scotty, man," said Kelly, "It's appreciated."

Suddenly Kelly stopped. "Hold it, man, hold up a second." He paused at the nearest door, then leaned back and gave it a mighty kick. The wood splintered around the lock, and the door swung inward. 

"Come on!" he said, and dove into the open office. 

"What are we doing, man?" asked Scotty, as he followed him.

"Looking for coats," replied Kelly. His eyes lit on a door that had swung open with the building's movement. "Here we go!" He grabbed two overcoats from hooks inside the closet. "One for me...." He threw one to Scotty. "And one for you."

As they turned for the door, Scotty muttered, "Man our per diem isn't so low we can't afford to buy coats."

"True, true," replied Kelly, "But I thought you'd like some protection while we're sliding down that garbage chute, Jack."

Scotty nodded. "That's a fair point you bring up there, I must admit."

"I thought so," said Kelly.

"And you were right, which makes a nice change of pace."

They reached the maintenance closet, and Kelly opened the door, gesturing his partner inside. The building gave another groan, and lurched. "I'm really not feeling good about this," he said, pulling on the heavy overcoat. "Let's cut out,"

"Already gone, Kel." Scott pulled on his own coat, and opened the garbage chute. "Let's go, man, come on, let's get going!"

Kelly hefted himself, feet-first, into the chute, and Scotty followed.

It was a terrifying, high-speed slide and along with the rush and pings and groans of the aluminum chute they were barreling down, they heard crashing and tearing sounds around them, and the tube shifted hard, battering them back and forth between its walls. 

Over even that sound, they heard the hellish bellow of Godzilla's terrible roar, and a series of gigantic, but receding, concussions. The beast moving away?

Then they were, for a moment, flying, tumbling through open air, to crash-land with shattering force on the garbage piled high in the dumpster. 

The air was full of smoke and dust, and they lay there for long moments, listening to the roar of flames, the howl of sirens, the distant sounds of the receding monster and futile artillery fire. 

"Okay," Scotty was finally able to breath, "All right, let's get out of the garbage and away from here, man, because if we're not gone when the building lets go, our lives are gonna get a lot more complicated."

There were bangs and crumps coming from the canted building, thuds of masonry falling to the pavement. Most of this was on the far side, on the front of the building, but they both knew that when the whole structure failed, the debris would tumble in all directions. 

They heaved themselves over the side of the dumpster, dropped to the ground, and ran back, around the metal box and away from the building. As they bolted into the alley they'd entered through, they saw beyond it a twisted, flaming mass of metal wreckage, maybe five feet tall. A gun barrel pointed futilely and drunkenly away from it, and they realized it was a flattened tank.

"Baby," said Kelly Robinson, "I'm telling you, there's something about being stomped on by a twelve-story radioactive lizard, man, that'll just ruin your whole day!"

"Yeah, I heard _that_," said Scotty. They trotted around the wreckage and moved off to the north, getting as much distance as they could between themselves and the building they'd escaped. 

They'd managed about a block and a half when they heard it, a shriek of protesting metal shearing, the staccato thunder of crumbling masonry, and then a long and persistent crash, louder than cannon-fire, that seemed to go on and on, as theFujimori disintegrated.

"Beat it, man!" cried Scotty, pelting full-tilt ahead down a boulevard now crowded with emergency and military vehicles and burning wreckage. 

Kelly sprinted along behind him, shouting to the people around them, "Move it, people, the Fujimori's gone, the cloud–!"

Scotty was bellowing in Japanese at the same time, and both voices were stilled simultaneously by the roar that followed them. 

The wave-front of dust and debris had been channeled down the urban canyon at nearly the speed of sound, and they were snatched up and tumbled down the street in the midst of the choking mass of particulate matter, battered by individual bricks still flying from the original shattering impact.

Kelly didn't know how long he lay stunned. He blinked slowly back to full consciousness, coughing up dust, and struggled up into a seated position on the ground. 

"_Scotty?_" he shouted. "_SCOTTY!_"

"Here, man!" called Scott. "I feel like I went ten rounds with the Chicken-Heart that ate New York City, but I'm still with you." He clambered to his feet, staggered over to Kelly. "You gonna live, man?"

"You know, man, I'm starting to be afraid that I am." Kelly took his offered hand, and let Scotty help him to his feet. 

Other walking wounded were struggling to their feet around them. Here and there on the street and sidewalks were twisted forms that would never rise again. The two spies pitched in, helping the injured get to police and military forces that moved into the area, and then moved off to one side. 

"Now," said Scotty, "before we were so rudely interrupted, you were saying our next stop isTakigato, Phelps and Company?"

Kelly stared at him for a moment. "After _that!?!?_"

Scotty looked back at him. "Did our orders say, 'unless a gigantic lizard destroys the city'?"

Kelly looked at the ground. "Well, no...."

"Do you think the Yakuza's saying, 'We'll kill her if it gets too dicey, unless a gigantic lizard destroys the city'?"

"Well, not as such, but, you know, they might just cut and run, man." 

"So the best possible case, Jack, is there's a nine-year-old girl who's been abducted and then abandoned in the middle of a disaster. And we work our way on down to they're going to kill her."

Kelly pushed his hand back through his hair. "Well, when you put it that way..." He looked back over at Scotty. "Man, where is this warehouse?"

"On the waterfront, Jack, I told you!"

"Oh, well, okay, that's good, then, man, that's just great, because, you know, every time Godzilla attacks Tokyo, he comes out of the bay, and then when he's done, he goes back _into_ the bay, and that's, you know, the waterfront. Which, by the way, in case you hadn't realized it, Godzilla is _thataway_–" Kelly pointed west "–and the waterfront is _thataway_–" Kelly pointed east "–and you and I, you see, we're right in the middle."

"Well, see, that _is_ great, man, because, you know, we're talking about a really rare animal, man, a sight hardly anybody in the world has ever seen. Now, you wouldn't want to pass up a chance to see that a second time, would you?"

"Of course not, my man, especially when, you know, we could see him right up close! And from street level, too, Jack, what could possibly be better?"

"Exactly, man," said Scotty. "Let's go."

They made their way eastward on foot, passing military patrols as they went. The eyes of the soldiers were wide, stunned, and hopeless.

"_War of the Worlds_, man," said Scotty.

"What's that?" his partner asked, drawn from his own reverie.

"I said _War of the Worlds_. It's a book, you know, H. G. Wells."

"Never read it," said Kelly. "I saw the George Pal movie when I was a kid."

"Not the same, man," said Scott. "The book takes place in Victorian England. Artillery cannons drawn by horses. The Martians wipe them out. One of the survivors says, 'Bows and arrows against the lightning.'" Scotty's head gestured at the passing soldiers. "Look at these kids, man. Bows and arrows against the lightning, but they're following him."

"Nobody ever said a Japanese soldier wasn't brave, Scotty."

* * *

"Kelly? Alex?" The voice was deep and familiar, and they turned toward the makeshift command post they'd been passing. The heavyset form and dark, piecing eyes were immediately recognizable as Martin moved to meet them. 

"Call me Scotty, man, I told you," said Scott, his tone friendly enough.

Martin clasped his hand, then Kelly's, eagerly and gladly. "Thank God you're all right, gentlemen! When I heard the Fujimori building had fallen, I thought–"

"Yeah," said Kelly, "So did we, Steve, but, no such luck."

"And the child?"

"Not there," said Scotty. "The bar didn't pan out, either."

"No," muttered Steve Martin, shaking his head. "I thought about it after you'd left. I'd forgotten the bar had been shifted over from the executive section to the operational."

"So now we've gotta get to the warehouse," Kelly told him.

Martin took a step back, looking them up and down. "You know that when Godzilla returns to the sea, that will be ground zero, if it's still standing at all."

"Yeah, man," said Scotty, "but what choice do we have? She's nine years old."

"You're good men," Martin said. "There may yet be hope. Godzilla seems to watch over children."

"Watch over...?" Kelly looked closely at the reporter. "Man, isn't that a bit, I dunno, mystical for a hard-boiled reporter like yourself?"

"Look around you, Kelly," said Martin. "Think about what you've seen tonight. After that, what are you willing to name impossible?"

"I dunno, man, but..." Kelly shook his head. "He's an animal, right? A dinosaur or something that was mutated by radiation."

"Perhaps," said Martin. "Or perhaps he's more than that. Perhaps he's a lesson from the Earth itself, reminding mankind that we aren't as omnipotent as we like to pretend."

"Man, that's a lot to swallow," said Scotty.

"Is it?" Martin didn't retreat. "Have you heard of a scientist named James Lovelock? The Gaia Hypothesis? Lovelock theorizes that the entire planet Earth, and every living thing on it, are actually one vast organism. If it is, then some human activities, pollution, nuclear tests, surely they're akin to a disease, such as cancer or gangrene, where parts of the body attack the whole. If that's so, Godzilla could, in a way, be a kind of global antibody, attacking the infection."

Kelly was astounded. "You really believe that, Jack?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't _believe_ anything, Kelly," he said quietly. "I think Godzilla is too big for my mind to truly know. But I've looked him in the eye, my friend, and seen firsthand the devastation he wreaks, and, in the face of that, I'm too small to dictate terms to the universe. Anything is possible."

They stood for a moment, the three men just regarding one another.

"Well, I hope you're right, man," Kelly finally said. "'Cause Yukio sure needs _somebody_ watching over her. If it has to be a twelve-story reptile, well, I'll take it."

Martin clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Kelly."

"You, too, Steve."

They parted again, Kelly and Scott moving quietly toward the waterfront.

* * *

The devastation at the waterfront beggared the imagination. 

As few as one building in three still stood, many of those heavily damaged. Cargo-loading cranes were reduced to mangled piles of metal struts and torn cables. High-tension towers were likewise felled in tangles of girders and wire, and, a good half-mile inland, a container ship lay on its side, bent at a boomerang angle, cargo containers the size of train cars scattered around it like an angry child's discarded building blocks.

Kelly and Scotty made their way carefully through the hellish scene. In the distance to the west, the terrible sound of Godzilla's roar echoed back to them.

"You don't suppose he's on his way back," said Kelly.

"That would be about our luck," Scotty replied.

"Oh, don't you just love this night more and more all the time?"

"You know, Kel, I have to say, I really don't, not right at the moment, no."

They stopped in front of a standing warehouse. "What's the number forTakigato, Phelps?"

"Seven-Twenty," answered Scotty.

"Okay, well this one's Five-Eighty-Seven."

Scott looked over to the nearest standing warehouse in the next row. "Looks like we have Six-oh-Eight over there."

"Then we have a bearing, my good man, a navigational aid as good as a guiding star."

They set off again, checking building numbers to see that they were headed in the right direction. Behind them, they heard a distant drumbeat of artillery, followed by the scream of the giant reptile. 

"Did that seem closer to you?" asked Scotty.

"You know, it did at that, my man, yes, yes."

They sped up, trotting among the wrecked and sagging warehouses, until Kelly held up a hand. "Seven-Twenty," he said pointing across a debris-littered asphalt driveway. 

"Could be worse," replied Scotty. The building was half-standing, the north wall a spreading pile of rubble, the roof sloped at a crazy angle, but the southern end of the building seemed fairly solid.

They felt a tremor in the ground.

"Footstep," said Scotty.

"Of course it is," replied Kelly, in disgust. "I don't suppose your education extends to the land speed of the non-domesticated Godzilla."

"No, I can't say that it does, man, but I _can_ say we'll get to see it up close in a few minutes."

"You are a veritable fountain of good cheer, Stanley, overflowing with the bright side of life."

"Yeah, and I'm a pretty good masseur, too," said Scott, and they crept up to the collapsed north side of the warehouse.

A few minutes of poking found them what they expected: a way in without having to open any doors or windows. They exchanged a glance, then slipped into jagged-edged opening at the edge of the broken wall, and slid sideways past the twisted girders of a fallen catwalk. The inside of the warehouse was a warren of small storage rooms, walled with plywood, and open to the ceiling above. Rectangular doors were cut haphazardly into the plywood partitions, and there were crates, boxes, and large canvas bags within them.

Another tremor rattled the building. The remaining overhead catwalk creaked. Godzilla's roar sounded again, much closer and louder than it had any right to be this soon. There was a crump of further artillery-fire, and Scotty scowled. "Oh, that's good. If the lizard doesn't get us, the Japanese army can blow us to pieces."

"Yeah," said Kelly, grimly. "Tell me again why we took this job?"

"I think it was the travel. Definitely the travel. Join the department, see the world, meet interesting gigantic radioactive lizards and be eaten by them."

"Yeah, that's right. It was right on the recruiting poster." Kelly sighed. "I just forgot, man."

They inched further down the makeshift corridor, and Kelly leaned over to look around the next corner. Then he backed slowly away again, eyes wide, the barrel of a Japanese Nambu semi-automatic pistol pressed against his forehead.

"Oh, now, see there?" said Scotty, stepping back a half-step with his hands out at his sides, "I forgot one. If Godzilla and the Japanese army both manage to miss us, we've got the Yakuza to kill us, instead."

The gunman stepped forward, moving Kelly back, and gestured him over toward Scotty.

As Kelly moved silently back to his side, also displaying empty hands, Scotty uttered a few syllables of Japanese.

"Your Japanese is very good," said the gunman in English. He was a smallish man, slender and wiry, his hair black, and combed straight back away from his face. His cheekbones were wide and sharp, and there was a small, hooked scar near the left-hand corner of his mouth that made him look like he was smiling. He wasn't. He wore a simple black suit, his narrow tie loosened, the top button of the white linen shirt undone. 

"Well, thank you, man," replied Scotty, "I studied very hard for a long time."

"Whereas I," said Kelly, "did not, so I do appreciate you killing us in English, sir, don't think I don't." 

"Why are you here?" asked the gunman.

"You know why, man," said Scotty. "I can see a bit of the tattoo where the collar of your shirt is open. You're Yakuza. Inagawa-kai family, since you're operating here. You have the little girl. It's time for her to go home, man."

"We weren't paid to send her home, safe and sound."

"No," said Kelly. "You were paid to use her to control her father, so he'd block American bases. I don't understand that, man! I mean, okay, sure, so you're criminals, I get that, but aren't you at least _Japanese_ criminals?"

The Yakuza spat on the floor at Kelly's feet. "And you think it is Japan's honor to be America's lap-dog? To allow your military free run of our country, to whimper and wag our tails at your command?"

"No, man, I don't know. I think we've been good friends to Japan since the war. We've helped you rebuild, we ended the occupation as soon as we were able, but nobody's saying you shouldn't stand up for yourselves, man." Kelly shrugged. "Maybe you _should_ turn down the bases. But I can tell you this, sir. You're taking money for this from the Red Chinese. I can tell you the U.S. of A. cares about Japan's independence and dignity, and you can believe me or don't, but we both know that Peking doesn't give a wet_damn_ about your country!"

The building shook with a gigantic thud. There was the sound of falling rubble in the direction Kelly and Scott had come from. Godzilla's cry seemed very close.

"Let us have her, man," said Scotty. "After tonight, Japan's going to need all the help, all the friends, it can get." The gunman looked consideringly at him, and Scott uttered a few more words of Japanese.

They were silent a moment, listening to the cannon-fire outside, and another thud, and another roar, even closer.

Finally, the Yakuza nodded. "Hai!" he said. "Come, this way."

He led them back around the corner behind him, and on, through two of the makeshift store-rooms, to an office that was part of the original structure of the building. There was a desk and two straight-backed chairs. The girl was tied to one, ankles tied to the front legs, wrists to the back. She was blindfolded and gagged.

There was a loud blast outside, and another bellowing roar from the Monster, and then a harsh rushing sound of flames. Explosions followed in a quick string, shaking the building. 

"Take her," said the Yakuza. 

Scotty was at her side, using a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket to cut her bonds before he gently removed her blindfold and gag. 

"Hello, Yukio," said Scott, his voice soft and calm. "My name is Scotty. My friend is Kelly. I haven't been introduced to the other fellow."

Her eyes were huge and dark, and she looked from Scotty to the gunman to Kelly, who spared her a quick smile.

"I am Shimada," said the Yakuza.

"Glad to meet you," Kelly said, "Now Come on. It's time to go." 

Scott lifted the girl over his shoulder. Kelly looked to Shimada. "Where's the door, man?"

"This way!" the gunman walked swiftly ahead, leading them through more plywood corridors, and then out into an open space. The building shook again as he unlocked the door. 

Kelly moved up behind him, opened it a crack to look outside. "Okay, that isn't good."

In the paved driveway, a half-melted tank lay upside down, gouts of flame spurting from the torn openings. There were dead soldiers and parts of dead soldiers scattered around like thrown dolls. Still, there was nothing for it. That was the way out.

He gestured with his head, and Scotty approached, carrying the girl. "It's probably too bad we took her blindfold off her," Kelly said. "Pretty ugly out there."

Shimada shook his head. "It is important to look your destiny in the face."

"Not when you're nine," Scotty snapped at him. He murmured to the girl in Japanese, and she squeezed her eyes shut. He nodded at Kelly. 

"All right, then," said Kelly.

He pulled the door further open, and they moved quietly and carefully out, Kelly first, then Scotty and the girl, and Shimada taking up the rear.

The light of the burning tank danced crazily, making it hard to see, hard to get a grip on flickering shapes on the ground. Buildings, standing and fallen, seemed to move and sway, like dancers in a primitive tribal ritual.

The three men moved to the corner of the building, and then bolted for the cover of the next. There was a thunderous crash, and the earth heaved below them, scattering them on the ground like bowling pins. The unholy roar that followed was deafening, unbearable, coming from far above.

Kelly's first instinct was Scotty, and he was at his side in an instant, before even trying to ascertain the situation. The two men rose, lifting the screaming girl between them, and it was only then, with the cry of rage and fear from Shimada, that he took it in.

Where they building had been was a jagged green hill, shining dully in the firelight. It was hard and ridged and built to a vast, irregular column. It was a gigantic reptilian foot.

The four of them, three deadly men and an innocent little girl, stared up into the runnelled green face, the burning eyes that were the sky, twelve stories above them. Godzilla stood before them, staring down, vast, inscrutable, like some god out of legend, deciding their fate.

"Don't. Move." Kelly bit off the words. "If we move, he'll have us in a heartbeat."

"How do you know that, man?" asked Scotty.

"I don't."

They continued to stare up into the ageless volcanoes of eyes the size of dump trucks. Those hellish orbs stared down at them.

It was a day, a week, a year, ten years, that they stood and stared, until finally, after eighteen seconds, Shimada looked over at Scotty, uttered a syllable of Japanese, and bolted off to the left.

Kelly started to turn, but Scott grasped his wrist, shook his head.

They were shocked to hear the sound of a gunshot.

Shimada was screaming in Japanese, not fear but defiance, firing his puny eight-millimeter rounds up at the colossus.

Godzilla turned toward the sound of the gunshots – Kelly and Scotty seriously doubted the beast even felt the impact of the lightweight bullets – and growled.

Shimada was racing away from them, screaming his defiance and firing occasionally back up at the monster.

Godzilla turned in his direction and screamed, that terrifying bellow, the sound of Hell, and strode after him. 

As soon as the huge creature's attention was focused on the Yakuza, Scotty tugged Kelly's arm, and they ran, ducking mere inches beneath a flailing reptilian tail the size of a B52. They ducked into the shadow of a building to the west, and paused. Shimada's screams changed in tone, defiance replaced by sheer, screaming terror, and then there was the crashing, earth-shaking thud of Godzilla's footstep....

And silence.

After another moment, the monster's scream rang out again, and the tremors and crashes of his catastrophic march faded toward the water. 

Then there were the sounds only of crackling flames and howling sirens, and Kelly and Scotty exchanged another look, and began making their way back toward the devastated city of Tokyo.

* * *

Tokyo rebounded with a speed and efficiency that stunned Kelly. A week later, as they sat again in Steve Martin's living room, the streets were mostly cleared, and rebuilding of the waterfront was well under way.

"It is the tragic truth of this great metropolis," Steve was saying, "that they've had to learn how to recover from Godzilla's attacks. In six months, you'll hardly know he'd been here."

"We'll know, man," said Scotty.

"Yes," said Martin. "You will. You know, there aren't more than a dozen men on the planet who've stood at Godzilla's feet, and lived to tell the tale."

"Yeah," said Kelly. "A dozen men, and one truly amazing little girl."

"She's back with her father, then?" asked Steve.

"Yes, she is," said Scotty. "Safe and sound and happy as a clam, and you'd hardly believe that she'd looked Godzilla in the eye, man. She's incredible."

Kelly leaned forward. "Steve, did you find out anything about Shimada?"

"Not much. He was a fairly low-ranking member of theInagawa-kai family. Word is, though, that his family is being well taken-care of."

"You know, he was a criminal, and probably a murderer," said Kelly, "but in the end, he was a good man. He gave up his life to save ours, man. He did have some honor."

Martin nodded slowly. "I hope it wasn't in vain."

"Well, we're here, aren't we?" said Scotty.

"Oh, yes," said Steve Martin. "But I wonder, would you have been here anyway? You were saving a little girl. Godzilla's eyesight is strong. He saw her with you."

"Oh, come on," said Kelly, smiling. "Are we back to that again? Godzilla the big green teddy bear? The guardian angel to children everywhere?"

"It is a question," the reporter replied contemplatively. "Is he nature's punishment? Earth's immune system? Ancient god, timeless guardian of children? Mutated dinosaur, dragon of legend? Godzilla is too much for man's limited wisdom. No-one knows, no-one _can_ know, what Godzilla truly is."

"I know!" said Scotty, picking up his glass of ginger ale. "I know _exactly_ what Godzilla is!" He lifted his glass to Kelly and Steve, and both men lifted their martinis in salute. 

"Godzilla," said Alexander Scott, "is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans!"

  
  
**THE END**   
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story enough to Rec or Bookmark it, please don't spoil the surprise for others by revealing the identity of the "Special Guest Star."
> 
> Many, many thanks!


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